Hearing the sudden voice of the other breaking the anticipating silence made him jump a bit. A soft thud was heard as his shoes - far too big for his feet - bumped the wooden bench he was sitting on. At the same time a faint gasp for air escaped his throat, quickly followed by a nasal giggle in his collar at the whole circumstance. Well hello! Father made his swaying feelings between being overjoyed and wetting his pants definitely not clearer. Crawford poked his fingers through the holes of the grid that separated the two very, very different people. Dirty they were, crusty with dried blood from wiping away his common nosebleeds every so often - and when he wiggled them with a happily whispered 'hi!', his blackened fingernails caught the light. A simple gesture of acknowledgement, and a very quick one at that. Just hearing the voice of one of Renestrae's disciples filled him with electrifying wonder, from the scruffy crown of his head all the way down to his littlest toe. Finally! The High Priest of Ashmoor: now that was the real deal. Not at all like the holy wafer chompers back in his dreary home village. And he? He was fortunate enough to have a fine chat with him. Confined in a small box, true, but that was besides the point. Chew on that, senile goats.  

'So thankful I am, Father,' Crawford replied softly, making a little shaking motion of gratefulness with his head. 'You are good to me, as you radiate the One True Patron Deity's good will. I'm truly counting my blessings.' The black-haired man pulled back his pale fingers with a sniff, nodding frantically at the vague outline of the Priest on the other side. 'I am,' he murmured with misty eyes. A trembling smile made his lips curl, hearing Father's question. Having just recently slithered his way into the Upper Ring, he was still very much unaware of the strange rumors surrounding the High Priest. He had yet to find his valuable sources of intel. Unfortunately, shadowing behind the biggest guy he could see in an attempt to hop inside the local pubs had - so far - resulted in being grabbed by the nape of his neck and his belt, only to be tossed out on the streets again like the scrawny pup he was. So much for intel. But he had a name: High Priest Alpha. The first, the one, a pioneer of beginnings. A strange name for sure, but it made sense to Crawford in a way. And for now, a name was enough. 'If it's alright with you, I would very much like to address some other matters first. My burdens are of lesser concern.' The smile still lingered on his lips as the man clutched the bag on his lap tightly against his chest.

Crawford heard the reply of the Priest with perked ears, nodding with a smile. 'Why, donations, of course!' he chirped gleefully. A slight tremble was still heard in his voice, the latter loud enough to form an echo from behind the booth's doors. Renestrae should hear. Renestrae should know. Of course, he still wished to talk about his burdens, but this was so much more important to him. Something orange and in the shape of a carrot soon came poking through the grid. Perhaps because it was indeed an actual carrot. The dry thud on the other side of the booth told him it was received successfully, probably rolling between His Holiness's shoes right now. Immediately he grabbled around in his big sack of fun presents for his next grand donation. The grid popped out a few rusty trinkets now, followed by more junk: a bent spoon, a key he had stolen - but also some nut peels and overripe grapes that came popping through one by one.

'Your Church is absolutely beautiful, friend. I just had to stop and smell the flowers, you know?' he nervously tried to make small talk, skipping over the barfing part poor said flowers had to witness. 'But the cloisters…' His voice suddenly softened with concern. 'So drafty they look. I.. I don't want you to catch a cold, and.. So, I also brought this - ' The next thing through the grid got, well.. Stuck. After some pushing and pulling, he kinda just left it hanging like that. It looked like a dead weasel at most. In actuality, it was a warm-knitted pullover. It had holes and lots of loose threads, but looked otherwise fine. He had even soaked it in alcohol to wash off some blood splatters.

'I'm afraid I don't have much else on my person.' Crawford let out a soft apologetic chuckle. The raven haired man sighed, dared he would even say relieved. This was enough, right? He had made his donations, of which he really had to go out of his way to collect them. But Father Alpha would eat the carrot and the grapes and the nut peels in his stew tonight while wearing his new upper garment, thinking of him with a tear in his eye. Maybe Renestrae's lesser demons would even leave him alone for one night. There would be no need to sit in a rain puddle, knees to his chest, to keep his terrified self awake until first light. Sleep. No fear for once. Nothing in vain. Everybody happy. What an absolute win. That'd be nice. For the streets weren't all too generous and - Renestrae be damned - undressing drunkards from their pullovers after dropping a brick in the skull wasn't his most favorite thing in the world to do. They often peed themselves. And Gods, they bled. Almost as if they thought themselves worthy to be considered actual human beings.

A small smile played on his lips as Crawford gently placed his hands on his lap, waiting in anticipation. So happy he was, to finally be able to gift one of Renestrae's convoys. But there remained only silence from the other side. And.. something else. A dark, menacing ambient: it festered in the air, entangling itself perfectly at Father's hissed demands. Taken aback, the raven-haired man fluttered his eyes in slight confusion. He had to come out. Right this instant. "Whatever do you mean, Father?" he timidly asked, letting out a half-chuckle under his breath as he nervously twiddled his thumbs. This had to be some kind of mistake. It.. just had to be. He didn't understand at all. To him, a homeless lowborn, these gifts were easily acceptable. A gesture of selflessness. Of his devotion. Yet the reaction was one of anger and scorn. Why? And why here, in Her Holy House? He, too, was but a hatchling committed to Renestrae, a child of man. This wasn't the right response.

It soon came to his attention, however, that the High Priest was being very, very serious. Crawford slid on his feet, silently, but hastily limping to the curtain of his cubicle. He hid behind the drapes for a moment - and then suddenly came dashing out of the booth, trying to speed past the infuriated Priest before anyone could yell 'unholy thing'. There was an attempt. Immediately he snatched back at his collar, wheezing for air (and his deviously claimed 'sanctuary!' cut-off halfway with that) as his old ascot tie tightened around his neck, ominously foreshadowing the noose he very much dreaded. The pace of the man hauling him someplace else was stern and swift, and he could barely keep up. His big shoes skidded over the church floor. A whimper escaped his throat when a wall clashed with his backside. Father Alpha literally pinned him into place. No pattering away for him today, he'd reckon. Saddened and disheartened at the whole ordeal, his cloudy turned gaze sought out the other's.

And it was only then that the appearance of the Priest was presented before him. A tall, dark figure looming over him, cloaked in voids. But its face.. Crawford's mouth fell open in utter terror. He felt his knees growing weak as his disturbed gaze flashed from one black hole to the other. Tears built up on his lower eyelids. Even his slight freckles grew pale. It wasn't a priest.. it wasn't even human - oh, Renestrae, no. "Not - possible .." Raspy breathing quickened to the point of near hyperventilation, hands clawing spasmodically over his chest. Right now, he really feared his heart might give out with the many times it skipped a beat. They were there. Always. Lingering in his peripheral vision, their whispers and footsteps growing louder each day, for they knew what he was. Sinner. Homicidal maniac. Mage. He was terrified one of those apparitions would suddenly dart up into his face. They couldn't, though. Impossible. As long as he drew breath, they couldn't drag him away to Limbo. So how could this demon, this - this Archfiend, pluck away at his body? It was mocking him too, showing itself as a Priest.

Between the rapidly muttered prayers, sucking in air and the whimpering, he heard himself whisper 'absolution' at the fiend's question before he realized it. That was everything. That was all. Yet Crawford now felt frustration mixing with the panic like ill blood. "What is it you want from me?" His trembling hands clutched themselves around the arms holding him, pulling himself up and closer to the taller being until he'd put his face close to the silver guise. "You can't claim me!" he spat in a frenzy of bubbled up anger. "Why are you here! I have tried to have reverence in my prayers. I'm trying to make my amends. When is it enough?! I'm still alive so you - can't - claim - me!" the man screamed, wildly shaking the demon at his clerical collar as he did. Honestly, it was all too much for the shorter man to fathom. Should he bang his skull against the hard, cold stones behind him? Take his life before this ghoul could? Because the very fact that the lesser demons were getting physically personal with him now - that Renestrae sent higher demons to pester him now - meant that they were able to. That they most definitely were going to. It would be a last act of taking control for at least once in this pathetic life.

Among all his anger and grievance, Crawford tried to grasp the sense of things. The growling silver mask filled his eye of view. Naturally judging him of the way he tried to make his amends, even though it probably knew all too well that he was a beggar for alms who simply couldn't give more. Because that was what they did. Demons. Mocking, feeding off of any negative emotions. The raven-haired man's nostrils flared as he expelled his breath angrily through his nose. "I know I have committed sins by sullying Her Holy Law!" he snarled in the silver face. "As do you. You know! It was your kind that instructed me to come here past night, after all." He didn't care about the cold sweat wetting his little sideburns, or about the pain coursing through his shoulder as the creature dug his claws deep into his flesh. He certainly didn't care how his body pressed against the other's when he lifted himself up on his toes, fists tightened around the clerical collar like dead, curled up spiders. The mere audacity of nether imps such as these, to steal away his rest - night after night after night. And now depriving him of his peace of mind in broad daylight, too. To be mocked and bullied still, while he simply tried to do what he was told. He was supposed to be in power here. Above it. Because he; he was mortal.

"That's why I'm here, aren't I? To seek out Renestrae's mercy, because her minions told me to do so. So please -" he spat out the latter sardonically, his beak-like nose scrunched up. "Save me your foul mind tricks! You may have your orders to follow and follow them you shall, but you're nothing - nothing - but a vile demon in disguise, playing with what you think is prey. And, my friend, you are so wrong." Even though a muscle in his jaw visibly tensed - even though he nodded his head along his humorless chuckles, with sickly looking skin gleaming with sweat, the clattering of his teeth was heard through the empty halls. During it all, he felt his heart wildly beating in his chest. A stomach-turning mix of fear and anger.

"She has a plan for me. I'm going to see it through," Crawford then hoarsely whispered. His alarmingly widened gaze was laser-focused on one black hole, and then on the other. In search for some kind of meaning in the void behind the mask. Perhaps the malicious spirits had actually redirected him to the Church to die today, by hands of this higher demon staring him down. But that couldn't be true. It wasn't time to claim him for Limbo yet.. was it? Survival. Studying magic. Drawing the lottery of birth - of life - while his brother, the one who was actually loved by his parents, did not. Taking lives to offer Her sacrifices. What had been the point of it all then? Most of his peers from his home village were put in the ground before reaching adulthood. Not him: he had managed to remain standing, thanks to his wits and the shameless altering of his moral compass. A lowly scavenger that dared to pick away at prey of bigger predators, seeking golden glory between the meat and bones, with wings too crooked to move out of their looming shadows. He knew what he was. It was a miserable existence, yes, but it was his life. And, if anything, if he was allowed to remain - he believed he could fly high someday. That She indeed had a greater plan for him. Coming this far, only to perish inside one of the magnificent buildings that had always been visible on the horizon for his entire childhood. It didn't make any sense. No sense at all.